


Inferno

by Taxman_Apologist (spacelizardtrashboys)



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Flirting, Implied Relationships, M/M, Mild Language, POV Original Character, POV Second Person, Sabotage, Swearing, Sweat, Workplace, money inc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 12:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20742452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacelizardtrashboys/pseuds/Taxman_Apologist
Summary: Office sabotage, air conditioning woes, and some flirtatious vibes from Husbands Inc.Teen rating for language.





	Inferno

Eventually you accept that no amount of rubbing or blowing is going to do the trick. Your hands are simply frozen, and you’ll never be able to use them again. The mug of tea at your elbow has gone tepid, and acquiring more hot water would mean leaving the warm spot in your chair – unthinkable at this point. Caught between sluggish torpor and intolerable shivering, you resign yourself to staring miserably at the keyboard in front of you.

How your boss expects you to type up these documents is a mystery. Your hands are all but useless at this point, and looking around the office, you can see that the others are huddled up with the same dead-eyed gloom. _What is this, Soviet Russia for chrissakes…_ The fact that it’s a sweltering mid-July afternoon only compounds the absurdity of the situation.

Each morning, you put on your lightest and most breathable outfit to combat the cloying humidity that is already setting in as the sun bears down on your commute. Once inside your office building, you rush to your desk and seek out the long pants and shirt which will be your lifeline for the day. If you’re lucky, the sweat on your body won’t yet have frozen into a hoar frost by the time you’ve changed. When you finally leave this ninth circle of hell for the day, you’ll resist the urge to lie down on the hot asphalt of the parking lot and sun yourself like a lizard as the life creeps back into your bones.

Now, as you try to straighten your stiff, painful fingers, you curse your low body temperature and poor circulation. Moreover, you curse the bastard who controls the thermostat, the man who insists on blasting the air conditioning all summer, the fascist who sucks every drop of moisture, heat, and joy out of the third floor.

_Irwin._ Your brain spits out the name with absolute contempt.

Office lore has it that ever since he found out the A/C was rolled into the building fee, he has been unstoppable. There had even been a petition, which was promptly and gleefully shredded. All day long, while you freeze and shiver, he strolls about as happy as a clam, satisfied smirk permanently plastered on his face and eyes glinting from behind the spectacles perched on his nose. You imagine a thousand torments for him as you glower unblinkingly and unseeingly at your gnarled hands.

“Haven’t you started those files?”

That familiar, blunt voice startles you out of your murderous reverie, and you take a moment to contain the death glare you were about to hurl at the devil himself. As you turn toward your employer with the calculated neutrality you’ve been honing these past few months, you offer your stock answer for times like this.

“Sir?”

You’ve faced this man at various points since you were hired on, yet you’re never quite prepared for the imposing figure standing in front of you. Like every other day, he’s dressed in black slacks and a crisp white collared shirt. The short, rolled-up sleeves manage to mostly contain the utterly baffling array of muscles which jut out everywhere you look. _What’s the point? The man’s an accountant! Freaking showoff._ His tie is a blandly hideous floral number, and it’s about the only thing that ever changes from day to day. He seems to be held together (and only just) by bright red suspenders which cause you inexplicable rage every time you see them. You crane your neck upward, reluctant to meet the disapproving gaze at the top of the rather tall, mountainous form.

“Those files! In front of you! You haven’t opened the first one yet! How many times have we been over this? I’ve told you they’re expecting a quick turnover here, so put your damn emails on hold and get these done. You’re not going home until you finish them.”

You wish he’d learn what an indoor voice is. Now the entire office knows you’ve been slacking. _Asshole._

“Sorry, I’ll get on it.”

“Well, _do_ it then. And so help me, if I see any sloppy work like last time, you’ll do them _all_ again by hand.”

Great. Another evening hanging out in the ninth circle. Nothing to keep you company but the steady sound of typing from inside Lucifer’s private office. He’d go all night if he could – hell, he was probably happy for the excuse to stay late with his precious documents.

_No. Don’t give him the satisfaction. Let’s power through these files and peel out of here at five with everyone else. Pour yourself another tea and get your ass in gear._

With that pep talk, you set about processing with a renewed sense of gusto and purpose. Your fingers are a blur, your attention unflagging. Unfortunately, you soon realize that the pile is not diminishing quickly enough. You’ll be trapped here. It’s unescapable. As the hour nears, you feel the wind leave your sails. You sag in your chair and return the hollow stares of your co-workers as they file out. Their gazes all say the same thing: _You poor son of a bitch._ Your friend Viv gives you a sympathetic grimace as she grabs her purse and makes a beeline for the door. “See you tomorrow.” You give her a taut smile and muffle the groan you so desperately want to release.

There are only a few more files sitting on your desk, but they look like a herculean undertaking now that you’ve passed into the nether-realm after five o’clock. This is it. You’ll die of old age here, at this very desk. They’ll find your mummified remains hunched over your keyboard.

You begin your weary slog anew, trying to block out the sound of Irwin’s tireless clacking and rustling from the inner office. Even with the door closed, it sets your nerves on edge. Damn cheap building with its paper-thin walls. You rub your temples. _God, does he really have to act like he enjoys it?_

As six o’clock approaches, you are finally opening your last file. You wipe your dripping nose and blow on your hands one final time. Only twenty more minutes of pretending to be a functioning adult who isn’t freezing their ass off. Soon, you’ll be at home, languishing on the couch with a bowl of cereal.

Just as you’re finalizing the last form, you hear the phone ring in the inner office. The typing sounds stop abruptly and there’s a slight pause before you hear the receiver lift.

“Yes? …M-Mr. Dibiase?” The voice lowers to a nervous hiss. “I thought we agreed that you’d never call me here.”

Your ears are practically straining off your head as you lean toward the door.

“No, I – _Ted_ – Ted please. Just tell me – What? Both of them?”

There’s a pause, brief but pregnant. You hear him growl, “Dammit. I’ll be there right away.”

The receiver clacks down sharply and you hear his chair push back with a flurry of movement from behind the wall. Frantically, you try to rearrange your papers in a manner which suggests you couldn’t possibly have been eavesdropping, whatever that might look like. As you flail around like an idiot, he comes charging out the door with his briefcase, keys, and a canvas bag in tow. He barely casts a glance your way, running a hand through his dark hair in an unprecedented display of nerves. His voice is even more brusque than usual.

“I need to leave. When you’re done, place the files on my desk and make sure the door is shut and locked behind you. Same goes for the main door out here. Greg will let you out of the building.”

Without so much as a see-you-tomorrow, he strides out with a purpose you’ve rarely seen even in someone as efficient as him. _Prick._

_Secretive_ prick.

Good thing you’re not far behind him, in any case. You’d been hoping there would be more to hear, but if the only thing between you and home is dumping these files, then better get on with it. As you rush into the office, you almost forget the chill in your bones. Almost.

You dump the folders in a heap onto his otherwise immaculate desk, shrug, and turn to leave.

But there.

There it is. The A/C control. The hell device. Here in the inner sanctum, you realize that you’ve been given an opportunity – nay, a gift. Without so much as a second thought, feeling an immense rush of power, you reach out to turn the damn thing off.

_Wait._ Second thoughts are good sometimes. If you turn it off, he’ll know it was you. You retract your hand.

_What if it breaks down?_

That’s the ticket. It’s time to be a damn hero. Do it for the people. You are the chosen one.

Before a third thought can sink in, you’re past the outer casing and wreaking a bit of havoc, hoping it won’t be obvious that the unit has been tampered with. _Make it look like wear and tear._

You replace everything, and even take a moment to straighten out the pile of papers you’ve left behind. Irwin will appreciate it, no doubt. A wicked grin on your face, you shut the door and practically skip out of the building, already planning to wear your favourite summer top the next morning, the one with the screaming bright tropical print.

* * *

It was hot and muggy all night. As much as you tossed and turned and tried to sleep, you revelled in it. This morning, you’re singing in the shower. That office is going to be a swamp. You’re going to bring an iced coffee to work today.

Your co-workers are shocked at your demeanour when you burst in just before nine. Hell, you’re smiling. And the feeling is infectious – when the office realizes that their bodies are resting at a comfortable temperature, they begin chatting and joking around as the workday begins.

Before long, Irwin pokes his head out from his office. He’s looking pretty rough. Sure, he’s as buttoned-up, combed, and pressed as ever he was, but he’s got a nasty scrape on his forehead and one of his hands is taped up. He’s glaring, and before you know it all the air is sucked out of the room.

“Am I paying you to talk or to work?” he barks out before retracting his head again.

Viv looks over at you and stifles a giggle with a long-nailed hand. This isn’t the first time the boss has shown up to work looking much worse for wear. Some days he’d come strutting in with a stitched-up eyebrow and the biggest smirk on his face. On those days, he was okay. Once, they even saw him flirt with a delivery girl (unheard-of) and make a legitimately funny joke (thought impossible to modern science). That day went down in legend. Other times, he’d be sporting a hell of a shiner and lour about the office all day, instilling terror in anyone who dared to cough too much or slipped up and made a typo.

A few weeks ago, after two or three glasses of wine, you and Viv began to speculate on the nature of this strange phenomenon. “I bet I know what it’s from,” Viv insinuated drunkenly, lopsided grin on her face. “All week long, he’s in charge, isn’t he? He bosses people around, day in, day out.” She leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. “That’s a lot of pressure. What do you think it takes for a guy like that to blow off some steam?” She cackled at the look on your face. “I’m just sayin’ – he’s wound real tight.” You proceeded to get blitzed that night.

Perhaps this was indeed one of those days, though you couldn’t reconcile the occasional foul moods with this pet theory of Viv’s. You do realize that you may have picked the wrong day to fuck with the air conditioning.

As he makes his morning rounds, you notice something is off. Perhaps it’s the lack of direction in his step, the way he keeps tugging at the knot of his tie and running the back of his hand over his upper lip. He’s out of sorts, and more than usual. Even on the days when he’d come in looking like hell, even on the days when he was limping or holding his ribs, he’d maintain the same brutal efficiency. Today he just seems sluggish, haphazard. What really tips you off is the moment you catch him standing in his doorway and popping open the collar button of his shirt, which is usually cranked ruthlessly shut around his throat. He, in turn, catches you looking and scowls before slinking back into his office.

_Shit. Does he know?_

You keep a nervous ear on the office door all morning, and as lunch hour approaches, again you realize that your workflow has not been great. Sure, it could be the nerves, but eventually you must admit that the stifling heat in the office isn’t helping. Yes, perhaps this act of rebellion has been misjudged– perhaps a week of record temperatures wasn’t the ideal timing. Just as you begin to comprehend the depths of your folly, the door to the inner office swings open, and a truly shocking sight greets your eyes.

Irwin is absolutely ragged. His eyes are glazed behind steamed-up lenses, his tie askew around his throat. Not one, but _two_ shirt buttons are undone, and his collar is drenched. You scarcely dare to look at his face, but when you do, it is flushed and shining, a loose mess of damp hair trailing down his forehead.

_Yikes._

So… _this_ is why he always cranks the A/C. The man runs hot. _And holy shit, he’s suffering._

A twinge of guilt tugs at you for a split second. Then you think back to these long months of frigid torment, and your heart is once again made of stone. He will receive no quarter, no pity.

You return from your lunch break – spent in your car with the A/C maxed – as Irwin announces that the local service technicians are all out on calls this week. “I’ve called every company in the phone book. You’ll just have to push through.”

However, by the next hour, you find a look of desperation on the now-dripping face of your tormentor. His tie is hanging completely loose, an unthinkable _third_ button unfastened down the front of his chest. He keeps pushing his sodden hair out of his eyes. As he leans over your desk to double-check a form, an errant droplet of sweat makes its way along the side of his temple, down his jaw, and off the end of his chin, splattering onto the page below. You lock eyes awkwardly, and he sets his mouth into a hard line, turning away without a word and marching back into his office.

As the door slams shut, again you wonder whether he knows. A sweat stain is forming in the small of your back, and an accompanying knot in your stomach. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. Sure, the first hour or so of the morning was great; though you had to see Tom’s knees, it was a price worth paying. But this. This is horrendous. Everyone else is uncomfortable, and now you’re even feeling a degree of sympathy for the devil.

You resolve to do the right thing. Damn you, you’re going to tell him what you did. Maybe you can help fix it without needing to bring in the professionals. Be a hero again.

You waver for a moment at the closed office door, shrugging off the inquisitive glances from the few people who aren’t staring despondently at their work through a haze of sweat. As you hesitate, your fist raised to knock, you hear his voice cut through the silence: “Ted, it’s me. Yeah. Listen, I need to call in that favour. It’s gonna be a lot, but I need you for this.” You try to hide the fact that you’re listening intently, feigning double-checking the files in your hands, but he has lowered his voice and you retreat to your desk, not daring to interrupt his call.

A further hour elapses, stretching into the unforgiving mid-afternoon heat, and still Irwin has not emerged from his office. You struggle to work up the nerve again, but you’re saved from that conundrum by an unfamiliar, tall, sandy-haired man who sweeps through the front door, followed by a small entourage. He passes by your desk, head held high, and you can see that everything he’s wearing is expensive as hell. His suit fabric is luxurious, his haircut clearly top-of-the-line; even the air around him smells pricey.

As the stranger makes his way toward the inner office, Irwin bursts out, smoothing his hair. The golden-headed man stops in his tracks and throws his head back in an enormous peal of laughter. “Well Irwin, I’ve never seen you like this.” He lets his gaze wander appraisingly down, then back up. “You should go with a casual look more often.” He struts up to Irwin and pulls a large cream-coloured handkerchief out of his breast pocket with dramatic deliberation. “Here.” He slides the fine cloth into Irwin’s breast pocket, watching as the normally unflappable man clears his throat and looks at his feet momentarily.

“Erh, thanks Ted.”

Ted lets a small chuckle rumble out.

“Now,” Ted surveys the office, gesturing grandly with a wide, sunny smile on his face, “Let’s address your little problem.” Turning to one of the women in the group, he says, “Get in there, Katie, see what you can do.” Nodding briskly, Katie heads into the inner office, carrying a large case.

Irwin goes to follow her in, but with a small look and light touch to his elbow, Ted silently calls him back to loiter outside the office door. Ted pops a hip out to lean against the nearest empty desk, and says with a sly smile, “I brought you a present.”

Irwin shuffles in place, looking around to see if anyone is listening in. You gaze resolutely at your files, writing furiously and with no purpose, sneaking looks out from under your eyelashes.

Ted beckons another member of his entourage, who brings over two iced drinks. Ted takes both and hands one along to Irwin. “Sun tea from my kitchen. Nobody makes it better than Laurie.”

Irwin takes a tentative sip. “That’s real nice, Ted.” There’s something in his voice you can’t quite place.

“So,” Ted continues in a low voice, “This is your domain… You must be a real hard-ass.” He laughs again with the same full-throated rasp.

Irwin draws himself up. “I try to run a tight ship.”

“I’ll bet you do.” Ted’s voice is warm and playful.

“This is important work, Ted. If you start cutting corners, there are serious consequences.”

Before Irwin can build up a head of steam, Ted chuckles again and slaps him on the shoulder. “Take it easy, pal. I certainly can’t question your methods. You get things done better than any man I know.”

Irwin’s chin tilts upward, and he allows himself a small smile. “Our productivity has been up every quarter for the past two years.”

“That’s my man!” Ted’s laughter keeps bubbling up, irrepressible and contagious. Irwin is fully grinning now, basking in the approval. Ted drops his voice to a purr. “There’s a reason I keep you around, beyond the obvious assets.”

Your employer has been struck silent. You don’t dare look anywhere except directly down in front of you. Before anyone has the chance to speak again, Katie sticks her head out the door. “Quick fix, boss. We can head out now. Temp should be back to normal in the next half hour or so.” She turns to Irwin. “You might wanna try running it a bit lower, put less wear and tear on the system.”

Ted straightens up. “Thanks, Katie.” He turns to Irwin with a wink. “I’ve got the best people.” Ted glides forward until he stands less than a foot from his flushed, dark-haired companion, and murmurs, “Stay cool for me, will you?”

“Ted—”

“You’re welcome.”

Gripping his lapels, chest thrust forward, hundred-watt grin spread across his face, Ted sweeps back out with the same flawless confidence, long legs striding out the door before Irwin can formulate a response.

_So, that’s Ted._

Irwin lets out a long breath before beating a hasty retreat into his office, and you turn toward Viv’s desk. She is typing away, oblivious to what just happened. Desperately you cast your eyes about the room, but you can find no one to share a look with. This is worse than the torment of a hot office.

As Katie predicted, the temperature was well within tolerable levels before the hour was up, though it lacked the frigid bite you’d been dreading. Irwin must have taken her advice and set the A/C a few degrees warmer. 

So it seems you’ve ushered in a new era after all. They ought to build you a damn statue.

As you stare off dreamily, contemplating your own heroism, you notice a shadow cross your desk, and whip around to find yourself facing a huge, thick-muscled torso.

“Sir! Uh—sorry, I—”

“Listen. I went through your papers from yesterday. You made three mistakes.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean—”

“—Which is two fewer than last time, and that was without my direct supervision.”

You pause to stare up at your employer’s face, unsure of what exactly he’s trying to say. You notice that he’s gotten himself back into some semblance of order. His face is dry and no longer flushed. His hair has been combed back once more, save for a stubborn stray lock at the front. He has straightened his tie and fastened his shirt back up, though you also notice he’s left the final top button undone. Ted’s handkerchief has been neatly folded and is peeking out of his breast pocket.

Moreover, and quite shockingly, the corner of his mouth is quirked up. Rather than barking as he usually does, he speaks with uncharacteristic warmth—even softness.

“You’ll get there.”

Irwin slaps another folder down on your desk and strides off, back straight and chest swelling. Hell, this may just qualify as a strut. As the door to his office swings shut, you think you can make out a faint, whistled tune.

Ted really should drop by more often. You look around at the expensive office equipment and start planning what you’re going to break next.


End file.
